THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 


THE 

SAD   SHEPHERD 

A   CHRISTMAS    STORY 


BY 
HENRY   VAN   DYKE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1911 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  October,  1911 


3/17 
SIX 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 


±575793 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 
I 

DARKNESS 

OUT  of  the  Valley  of  Gardens, 
where  a  film  of  new-fallen 
snow  lay  smooth  as  feathers 
on  the  breast  of  a  dove,  the  ancient 
Pools  of  Solomon  looked  up  into  the 
night  sky  with  dark,  tranquil  eyes, 
wide-open  and  passive,  reflecting 
the  crisp  stars  and  the  small,  round 
moon.  The  full  springs,  overflowing 
on  the  hill-side,  melted  their  way 
through  the  field  of  white  in  winding 
channels;  and  along  their  course  the 
grass  was  green  even  in  the  dead  of 
winter. 

[3] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

But  the  sad  shepherd  walked  far 
above  the  friendly  valley,  in  a  region 
where  ridges  of  gray  rock  welted  and 
scarred  the  back  of  the  earth,  like 
wounds  of  half-forgotten  strife  and 
battles  long  ago.  The  solitude  was 
forbidding  and  disquieting;  the  keen 
air  that  searched  the  wanderer  had 
no  pity  in  it;  and  the  myriad  glances 
of  the  night  were  curiously  cold. 

His  flock  straggled  after  him.  The 
sheep,  weather-beaten  and  dejected, 
followed  the  path  with  low  heads 
nodding  from  side  to  side,  as  if  they 
had  travelled  far  and  found  little 
pasture.  The  black,  lop-eared  goats 
leaped  upon  the  rocks,  restless  and 
ravenous,  tearing  down  the  tender 
branches  and  leaves  of  the  dwarf 
oaks  and  wild  olives.  They  reared 
up  against  the  twisted  trunks  and 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

crawled  and  scrambled  among  the 
boughs.  It  was  like  a  company  of 
gray  downcast  friends  and  a  troop 
of  merry  little  black  devils  following 
the  sad  shepherd  afar  off. 

He  walked  looking  on  the  ground, 
paying  small  heed  to  them.  Now  and 
again,  when  the  sound  of  pattering 
feet  and  panting  breath  and  the  rus- 
tling and  rending  among  the  copses 
fell  too  far  behind,  he  drew  out  his 
shepherd's  pipe  and  blew  a  strain  of 
music,  shrill  and  plaintive,  quavering 
and  lamenting  through  the  hollow 
night.  He  waited  while  the  troops  of 
gray  and  black  scuffled  and  bounded 
and  trotted  near  to  him.  Then  he 
dropped  the  pipe  into  its  place  again 
and  strode  forward,  looking  on  the 
ground. 

The  fitful,  shivery  wind  that  rasped 
[5] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

the  hill-top,  fluttered  the  rags  of  his 
long  mantle  of  Tyrian  blue,  torn  by 
thorns  and  stained  by  travel.  The  rich 
tunic  of  striped  silk  beneath  it  was 
worn  thin,  and  the  girdle  about  his 
loins  had  lost  all  its  ornaments  of 
silver  and  jewels.  His  curling  hair 
hung  down  dishevelled  under  a  tur- 
ban of  fine  linen,  in  which  the  gilt 
threads  were  frayed  and  tarnished; 
and  his  shoes  of  soft  leather  were 
broken  by  the  road.  On  his  brown 
fingers  the  places  of  the  vanished 
rings  were  still  marked  in  white  skin. 
He  carried  not  the  long  staff  nor  the 
heavy  nail-studded  rod  of  the  shep- 
herd, but  a  slender  stick  of  carved 
cedar  battered  and  scratched  by  hard 
usage,  and  the  handle,  which  must 
once  have  been  of  precious  metal, 
was  missing. 

[6] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

He  was  a  strange  figure  for  that 
lonely  place  and  that  humble  occupa- 
tion— a  branch  of  faded  beauty  from 
some  royal  garden  tossed  by  rude 
winds  into  the  wilderness — a  pleasure 
craft  adrift,  buffeted  and  broken,  on 
rough  seas. 

But  he  seemed  to  have  passed  be- 
yond caring.  His  young  face  was 
frayed  and  threadbare  as  his  gar- 
ments. The  splendor  of  the  moon- 
light flooding  the  wild  world  meant 
as  little  to  him  as  the  hardness  of  the 
rugged  track  which  he  followed.  He 
wrapped  his  tattered  mantle  closer 
around  him,  and  strode  ahead,  look- 
ing on  the  ground. 

As  the  path  dropped  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  ridge  toward  the  Valley 
of  Mills  and  passed  among  huge 
broken  rocks,  three  men  sprang  at 

[7] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

him  from  the  shadows.  He  lifted  his 
stick,  but  let  it  fall  again,  and  a 
strange  ghost  of  a  smile  twisted  his 
face  as  they  gripped  him  and  threw 
him  down. 

"You  are  rough  beggars,"  he  said. 
"Say  what  you  want,  you  are  wel- 
come to  it." 

"Your  money,  dog  of  a  courtier," 
they  muttered  fiercely;  "give  us  your 
golden  collar,  Herod's  hound,  quick, 
or  you  die!" 

"The  quicker  the  better,"  he  an- 
swered, closing  his  eyes. 

The  bewildered  flock  of  sheep  and 
goats,  gathered  in  a  silent  ring,  stood 
at  gaze  while  the  robbers  fumbled 
over  their  master 

"This  is  a  stray  dog,"  said  one,  "he 
has  lost  his  collar,  there  is  not  even 
the  price  of  a  mouthful  of  wine  on 

[8] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

him.  Shall  we  kill  him  and  leave  him 
for  the  vultures?" 

"What  have  the  vultures  done  for 
us,"  said  another,  "that  we  should 
feed  them  ?  Let  us  take  his  cloak  and 
drive  off  his  flock,  and  leave  him  to 
die  in  his  own  time." 

With  a  kick  and  a  curse  they  left 
him.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  lay 
quiet  for  a  moment,  with  his  twisted 
smile,  watching  the  stars. 

"You  creep  like  snails,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  you  had  marked  my  time  to- 
night. But  not  even  that  is  given  to 
me  for  nothing.  I  must  pay  for  all,  it 
seems." 

Far  away,  slowly  scattering  and  re- 
ceding, he  heard  the  rustling  and 
bleating  of  his  frightened  flock  as  the 
robbers,  running  and  shouting,  tried 
to  drive  them  over  the  hills.  Then  he 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

stood  up  and  took  the  shepherd's 
pipe,  a  worthless  bit  of  reed,  from  the 
breast  of  his  tunic.  He  blew  again 
that  plaintive,  piercing  air,  sounding 
it  out  over  the  ridges  and  distant 
thickets.  It  seemed  to  have  neither 
beginning  nor  end;  a  melancholy, 
pleading  tune  that  searched  forever 
after  something  lost. 

While  he  played,  the  sheep  and  the 
goats,  slipping  away  from  their  cap- 
tors by  roundabout  ways,  hiding 
behind  the  laurel  bushes,  following 
the  dark  gullies,  leaping  down  the 
broken  cliffs,  came  circling  back  to 
him,  one  after  another;  and  as  they 
came,  he  interrupted  his  playing, 
now  and  then,  to  call  them  by  name. 

When  they  were  nearly  all  assem- 
bled, he  went  down  swiftly  toward 
the  lower  valley,  and  they  followed 

[10] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

him,  panting.  At  the  last  crook  of  the 
path  on  the  steep  hillside  a  straggler 
came  after  him  along  the  cliff.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  it  outlined  against 
the  sky.  Then  he  saw  it  leap,  and  slip, 
and  fall  beyond  the  path  into  a  deep 
cleft. 

"Little  fool,"  he  said,  "fortune  is 
kind  to  you !  You  have  escaped  from 
the  big  trap  of  life.  What  ?  You  are 
crying  for  help  ?  You  are  still  in  the 
trap  ?  Then  I  must  go  down  to  you, 
little  fool,  for  I  am  a  fool  too.  But  why 
I  must  do  it,  I  know  no  more  than  you 
know." 

He  lowered  himself  quickly  and 
perilously  into  the  cleft,  and  found 
the  creature  with  its  leg  broken  and 
bleeding.  It  was  not  a  sheep  but  a 
young  goat.  He  had  no  cloak  to  wrap 
it  in,  but  he  took  off  his  turban  and 
[11] 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

unrolled  it,  and  bound  it  around  the 
trembling  animal.  Then  he  climbed 
back  to  the  path  and  strode  on  at  the 
head  of  his  flock,  carrying  the  little 
black  kid  in  his  arms. 

There  were  houses  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Mills ;  and  in  some  of  them  lights 
were  burning;  and  the  drone  of  the 
mill-stones,  where  the  women  were 
still  grinding,  came  out  into  the  night 
like  the  humming  of  drowsy  bees.  As 
the  women  heard  the  pattering  and 
bleating  of  the  flock,  they  wondered 
who  was  passing  so  late.  One  of  them, 
in  a  house  where  there  was  no  mill 
but  many  lights,  came  to  the  door  and 
looked  out  laughing,  her  face  and 
bosom  bare. 

But  the  sad  shepherd  did  not  stay. 
His  long  shadow  and  the  confused 
mass  of  lesser  shadows  behind  him 

[12] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

drifted  down  the  white  moonlight, 
past  the  yellow  bars  of  lamplight 
that  gleamed  from  the  doorways.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  bound  to  go 
somewhere  and  would  not  delay. 

Yet  with  all  his  haste  to  be  gone,  it 
was  plain  that  he  thought  little  of 
where  he  was  going.  For  when  he 
came  to  the  foot  of  the  valley,  where 
the  paths  divided,  he  stood  between 
them  staring  vacantly,  without  a  de- 
sire to  turn  him  this  way  or  that.  The 
imperative  of  choice  halted  him  like  a 
barrier.  The  balance  of  his  mind  hung 
even  because  both  scales  were  empty. 
He  could  act,  he  could  go,  for  his 
strength  was  untouched ;  but  he  could 
not  choose,  for  his  will  was  broken 
within  him. 

The  path  to  the  left  went  up  toward 
the  little  town  of  Bethlehem,  with 

[13] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

huddled  roofs  and  walls  in  silhouette 
along  the  double-crested  hill.  It  was 
dark  and  forbidding  as  a  closed  for- 
tress. The  sad  shepherd  looked  at  it 
with  indifferent  eyes ;  there  was  noth- 
ing there  to  draw  him. 
The  path  to  the  right  wound  through 
rock-strewn  valleys  toward  the  Dead 
Sea.  But  rising  out  of  that  crumpled 
wilderness,  a  mile  or  two  away,  the 
smooth  white  ribbon  of  a  chariot-road 
lay  upon  the  flank  of  a  cone-shaped 
mountain  and  curled  in  loops  toward 
its  peak.  There  the  great  cone  was  cut 
squarely  off,  and  the  levelled  summit 
was  capped  by  a  palace  of  marble, 
with  round  towers  at  the  corners  and 
flaring  beacons  along  the  walls;  and 
the  glow  of  an  immense  fire,  hidden 
in  the  central  court-yard,  painted  a 
false  dawn  in  the  eastern  sky.  All 

[14] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

down  the  clean-cut  mountain  slopes, 
on  terraces  and  blind  arcades,  the 
lights  flashed  from  lesser  pavilions 
and  pleasure-houses. 

It  was  the  secret  orchard  of  Herod 
and  his  friends,  their  trysting-place 
with  the  spirits  of  mirth  and  madness. 
They  called  it  the  Mountain  of  the 
Little  Paradise.  Rich  gardens  were 
there;  and  the  cool  water  from  the 
Pools  of  Solomon  plashed  in  the  foun- 
tains; and  trees  of  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  fruited  blood-red  and 
ivory-white  above  them;  and  smooth, 
curving,  glistening  shapes,  whispering 
softly  of  pleasure,  lay  among  the 
flowers  and  glided  behind  the  trees. 
All  this  was  now  hidden  in  the  dark. 
Only  the  strange  bulk  of  the  moun- 
tain, a  sharp  black  pyramid  girdled 
and  crowned  with  fire,  loomed  across 

[15] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

the  night — a  mountain  once  seen 
never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  sad  shepherd  remembered  it 
well.  He  looked  at  it  with  the  eyes  of  a 
child  who  has  been  in  hell.  It  burned 
him  from  afar.  Turning  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  he  walked  with- 
out a  path  straight  out  upon  the  plain 
of  Bethlehem,  still  whitened  in  the 
hollows  and  on  the  sheltered  side  of 
its  rounded  hillocks  by  the  veil  of 
snow. 

He  faced  a  wide  and  empty  world. 
To  the  west  in  sleeping  Bethlehem, 
to  the  east  in  flaring  Herodium,  the 
life  of  man  was  infinitely  far  away 
from  him.  Even  the  stars  seemed  to 
withdraw  themselves  against  the  blue- 
black  of  the  sky.  They  diminished 
and  receded  till  they  were  like  pin- 
holes  in  the  vault  above  him.  The 

[16] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

moon  in  mid-heaven  shrank  into  a 
bit  of  burnished  silver,  hard  and  glit- 
tering, immeasurably  remote.  The 
ragged,  inhospitable  ridges  of  Tekoa 
lay  stretched  in  mortal  slumber  along 
the  horizon,  and  between  them  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sunken  Lake 
of  Death,  darkly  gleaming  in  its  deep 
bed.  There  was  no  movement,  no 
sound,  on  the  plain  where  he  walked, 
except  the  soft-padding  feet  of  his 
dumb,  obsequious  flock. 

He  felt  an  endless  isolation  strike 
cold  to  his  heart,  against  which  he 
held  the  limp  body  of  the  wounded 
kid,  wondering  the  while,  with  a  half- 
contempt  for  his  own  foolishness,  why 
he  .took  such  trouble  to  save  a  tiny 
scrap  of  the  worthless  tissue  which  is 
called  life. 

Even  when  a  man  does  not  know  or 

[17] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

care  where  he  is  going,  if  he  steps  on- 
ward he  will  get  there.  In  an  hour  or 
more  of  walking  over  the  plain  the  sad 
shepherd  came  to  a  sheep-fold  of  gray 
stones  with  a  rude  tower  beside  it. 
The  fold  was  full  of  sheep,  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  tower  a  little  fire  of  thorns 
was  burning,  around  which  four 
shepherds  were  crouching,  wrapped 
in  their  thick  woollen  cloaks. 

As  the  stranger  approached  they 
looked  up,  and  one  of  them  rose 
quickly  to  his  feet,  grasping  his 
knotted  club.  But  when  they  saw  the 
flock  that  followed  the  sad  shepherd, 
they  stared  at  each  other  and  said: 
"It  is  one  of  us,  a  keeper  of  sheep. 
But  how  comes  he  here  in  this  rai- 
ment ?  It  is  what  men  wear  in  kings' 
houses." 

"No,"  said  the  one  who  was  stand- 

[18] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

ing,  "it  is  what  they  wear  when 
they  have  been  thrown  out  of  them. 
Look  at  the  rags.  He  may  be  a 
thief  and  a  robber  with  his  stolen 
flock." 

"Salute  him  when  he  comes  near," 
said  the  oldest  shepherd.  "Are  we  not 
four  to  one  ?  We  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  a  ragged  traveller.  Speak  him 
fair.  It  is  the  will  of  God — and  it  costs 
nothing." 

"Peace  be  with  you,  brother,"  cried 
the  youngest  shepherd;  "may  your 
mother  and  father  be  blessed." 

"May  your  heart  be  enlarged,"  the 
'stranger  answered,  "and  may  all  your 
families  be  more  blessed  than  mine, 
for  I  have  none." 

"A  homeless  man,"  said  the  old 
shepherd,  "has  either  been  robbed  by 
his  fellows,  or  punished  by  God." 

[19] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"I  do  not  know  which  it  was,"  an- 
swered the  stranger;  "the  end  is  the 
same,  as  you  see." 

"By  your  speech  you  come  from 
Galilee.  Where  are  you  going  ?  What 
are  you  seeking  here?" 

"I  was  going  nowhere,  my  masters; 
but  it  was  cold  on  the  way  there,  and 
my  feet  turned  to  your  fire." 

"Come  then,  if  you  are  a  peaceable 
man,  and  warm  your  feet  with  us. 
Heat  is  a  good  gift;  divide  it  and  it  is 
not  less.  But  you  shall  have  bread  and 
salt  too,  if  you  will." 

"May  your  hospitality  enrich  you. 
I  am  your  unworthy  guest.  But  my 
flock?" 

"Let  your  flock  shelter  by  the  south 
wall  of  the  fold :  there  is  good  picking 
there  and  no  wind.  Come  you  and  sit 
with  us." 

[20] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

So  they  all  sat  down  by  the  fire ;  and 
the  sad  shepherd  ate  of  their  bread, 
but  sparingly,  like  a  man  to  whom 
hunger  brings  a  need  but  no  joy  in  the 
satisfying  of  it;  and  the  others  were 
silent  for  a  proper  time,  out  of  cour- 
tesy. Then  the  oldest  shepherd  spoke : 

"My  name  is  Zadok  the  son  of 
Eliezer,  of  Bethlehem.  I  am  the  chief 
shepherd  of  the  flocks  of  the  Temple, 
which  are  before  you  in  the  fold. 
These  are  my  sister's  sons,  Jotham, 
and  Shama,  and  Nathan :  their  father 
Elkanah  is  dead ;  and  but  for  these  I 
am  a  childless  man." 

"My  name,"  replied  the  stranger, 
"is  Ammiel  the  son  of  Jochanan,  of 
the  city  of  Bethsaida,  by  the  Sea  of 
Galilee,  and  I  am  a  fatherless  man." 

"It  is  better  to  be  childless  than 
fatherless,"  said  Zadok,  "yet  it  is  the 

[21] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

will  of  God  that  children  should  bury 
their  fathers.  When  did  the  blessed 
Jochanan  die?" 

"I  know  not  whether  he  be  dead  or 
alive.  It  is  three  years  since  I  looked 
upon  his  face  or  had  word  of  him." 

"You  are  an  exile  then  ?  he  has  cast 
you  off?" 

"It  was  the  other  way,"  said  Am- 
miel,  looking  on  the  ground. 

At  this  the  shepherd  Shama,  who 
had  listened  with  doubt  in  his  face, 
started  up  in  anger.  "Pig  of  a  Gali- 
lean," he  cried,  "despiser  of  parents! 
breaker  of  the  law!  When  I  saw  you 
coming  I  knew  you  for  something 
vile.  Why  do  you  darken  the  night  for 
us  with  your  presence  ?  You  have  re- 
viled him  who  begot  you.  Away,  or 
we  stone  you!" 

Ammiel  did  not  answer  or  move. 

[22] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

The  twisted  smile  passed  over  his 
bowed  face  again  as  he  waited  to 
know  the  shepherds'  will  with  him, 
even  as  he  had  waited  for  the  robbers. 
But  Zadok  lifted  his  hand. 

"Not  so  hasty,  Shama-ben-Elkanah. 
You  also  break  the  law  by  judging  a 
man  unheard.  The  rabbis  have  told 
us  that  there  is  a  tradition  of  the  el- 
ders— a  rule  as  holy  as  the  law  itself — 
that  a  man  may  deny  his  father  in  a 
certain  way  without  sin.  It  is  a  strange 
rule,  and  it  must  be  very  holy  or  it 
would  not  be  so  strange.  But  this  is 
the  teaching  of  the  elders :  a  son  may 
say  of  anything  for  which  his  father 
asks  him — a  sheep,  or  a  measure  of 
corn,  or  a  field,  or  a  purse  of  silver — 
'it  is  Corban,  a  gift  that  I  have  vowed 
unto  the  Lord ;'  and  so  his  father  shall 
have  no  more  claim  upon  him.  Have 

[23] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

you  said  'Corban*  to  your  father, 
Ammiel-ben-Jochanan?  Have  you 
made  a  vow  unto  the  Lord?" 

"I  have  said  'Corban,'  "  answered 
Ammiel,  lifting  his  face,  still  shad- 
owed by  that  strange  smile,  "but  it 
was  not  the  Lord  who  heard  my 
vow." 

"Tell  us  what  you  have  done,"  said 
the  old  man  sternly,  "for  we  will 
neither  judge  you,  nor  shelter  you, 
unless  we  hear  your  story." 

"There  is  nothing  in  it,"  replied 
Ammiel  indifferently.  "It  is  an  old 
story.  But  if  you  are  curious  you  shall 
hear  it.  Afterward  you  shall  deal  with 
me  as  you  will." 

So  the  shepherds,  wrapped  in  their 
warm  cloaks,  sat  listening  with  grave 
faces  and  watchful,  unsearchable 
eyes,  while  Ammiel  in  his  tattered 

[24] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

silk  sat  by  the  sinking  fire  of  thorns 
and  told  his  tale  with  a  voice  that  had 
no  room  for  hope  or  fear — a  cool, 
dead  voice  that  spoke  only  of  things 
ended. 


[25] 


II 

NIGHTFIRE 

:<TTN  my  father's  house  I  was  the 
J^  second  son.  My  brother  was  hon- 
ored and  trusted  in  all  things. 
He  was  a  prudent  man  and  profitable 
to  the  household.  All  that  he  coun- 
selled was  done,  all  that  he  wished 
he  had.  My  place  was  a  narrow  one. 
There  was  neither  honor  nor  joy  in 
it,  for  it  was  filled  with  daily  tasks 
and  rebukes.  No  one  cared  for  me. 
My  mother  sometimes  wept  when  I 
was  rebuked.  Perhaps  she  was  dis- 
appointed in  me.  But  she  had  no 
power  to  make  things  better.  I  felt 
that  I  was  a  beast  of  burden,  fed  only 
in  order  that  I  might  be  useful;  and 

[26] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

the  dull  life  irked  me  like  an  ill-fitting 
harness.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"I  went  to  my  father  and  claimed 
my  share  of  the  inheritance.  He  was 
rich.  He  gave  it  to  me.  It  did  not  im- 
poverish him  and  it  made  me  free. 
I  said  to  him  'Corban,'  and  shook  the 
dust  of  Bethsaida  from  my  feet. 

"I  went  out  to  look  for  mirth  and 
love  and  joy  and  all  that  is  pleasant 
to  the  eyes  and  sweet  to  the  taste.  If 
a  god  made  me,  thought  I,  he  made 
me  to  live,  and  the  pride  of  life  was 
strong  in  my  heart  and  in  my  flesh. 
My  vow  was  offered  to  that  well- 
known  god.  I  served  him  in  Jeru- 
salem, in  Alexandria,  in  Rome,  for 
his  altars  are  everywhere  and  men 
worship  him  openly  or  in  secret. 

"My  money  and  youth  made  me 
welcome  to  his  followers,  and  I  spent 

[27] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

them  both  freely  as  if  they  could 
never  come  to  an  end.  I  clothed  my- 
self in  purple  and  fine  linen  and  fared 
sumptuously  every  day.  The  wine  of 
Cyprus  and  the  dishes  of  Egypt  and 
Syria  were  on  my  table.  My  dwelling 
was  crowded  with  merry  guests. 
They  came  for  what  I  gave  them. 
Their  faces  were  hungry  and  their 
soft  touch  was  like  the  clinging  of 
leeches.  To  them  I  was  nothing  but 
money  and  youth;  no  longer  a  beast 
of  burden — a  beast  of  pleasure.  There 
was  nothing  in  it. 

"From  the  richest  fare  my  heart 
went  away  empty,  and  after  the  wild- 
est banquet  my  soul  fell  drunk  and 
solitary  into  sleep. 

"Then  I  thought,  Power  is  better  than 
pleasure.  If  a  man  will  feast  and  revel 
let  him  do  it  with  the  great.  They  will 

[28) 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

favor  him,  and  raise  him  up  for  the 
service  that  he  renders  them.  He  will 
obtain  place  and  authority  in  the 
world  and  gain  many  friends.  So  I 
joined  myself  to  Herod." 

When  the  sad  shepherd  spoke  this 
name  his  listeners  drew  back  from 
him  as  if  it  were  a  defilement  to  hear 
it.  They  spat  upon  the  ground  and 
cursed  the  Idumean  who  called  him- 
self their  king. 

"A  slave!"  Jotham  cried,  "a  bloody 
tyrant  and  a  slave  from  Edom!  A 
fox,  a  vile  beast  who  devours  his 
own  children !  God  burn  him  in  Ge- 
henna." 

The  old  Zadok  picked  up  a  stone 
and  threw  it  into  the  darkness,  saying 
slowly,  ''I  cast  this  stone  on  the  grave 
of  the  Idumean,  the  blasphemer,  the 
defiler  of  the  Temple!  God  send  us 

[29] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

soon  the  Deliverer,  the  Promised  One, 
the  true  King  of  Israel!"  Ammiel 
made  no  sign,  but  went  on  with  his 
story. 

"Herod  used  me  well, — for  his  own 
purpose.  He  welcomed  me  to  his 
palace  and  his  table,  and  gave  me  a 
place  among  his  favorites.  He  was  so 
much  my  friend  that  he  borrowed 
my  money.  There  were  many  of  the 
nobles  of  Jerusalem  with  him,  Sad- 
ducees,  and  proselytes  from  Rome 
and  Asia,  and  women  from  every- 
where. The  law  of  Israel  was  ob- 
served in  the  open  court,  when  the 
people  were  watching.  But  in  the 
secret  feasts  there  was  no  law  but  the 
will  of  Herod,  and  many  deities  were 
served  but  no  god  was  worshipped. 
There  the  captains  and  the  princes  of 
Rome  consorted  with  the  high-priest 

[30] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

and  his  sons  by  night;  and  there  was 
much  coming  and  going  by  hidden 
ways.  Everybody  was  a  borrower  or  a 
lender,  a  buyer  or  a  seller  of  favors. 
It  was  a  house  of  diligent  madness. 
There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"In  the  midst  of  this  whirling  life  a 
great  need  of  love  came  upon  me  and 
I  wished  to  hold  some  one  in  my  in- 
most heart. 

"At  a  certain  place  in  the  city, 
within  closed  doors,  I  saw  a  young 
slave-girl  dancing.  She  was  about 
fifteen  years  old,  thin  and  supple;  she 
danced  like  a  reed  in  the  wind;  but 
her  eyes  were  weary  as  death,  and  her 
white  body  was  marked  with  bruises. 
She  stumbled,  and  the  men  laughed 
at  her.  She  fell,  and  her  mistress  beat 
her,  crying  out  that  she  would  fain 
be  rid  of  such  a  heavy-footed  slave.  I 

[31] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

paid  the  price  and  took  her  to  my 
dwelling. 

"Her  name  was  Tamar.  She  was  a 
daughter  of  Lebanon.  I  robed  her  in 
silk  and  broidered  linen.  I  nourished 
her  with  tender  care  so  that  beauty 
came  upon  her  like  the  blossoming  of 
an  almond  tree;  she  was  a  garden 
enclosed,  breathing  spices.  Her  eyes 
were  like  doves  behind  her  veil,  her 
lips  were  a  thread  of  scarlet,  her  neck 
was  a  tower  of  ivory,  and  her  breasts 
were  as  two  fawns  which  feed  among 
the  lilies.  She  was  whiter  than  milk, 
and  more  rosy  than  the  flower  of  the 
peach,  and  her  dancing  was  like  the 
flight  of  a  bird  among  the  branches. 
So  I  loved  her. 

"She  lay  in  my  bosom  as  a  clear 
stone  that  one  has  bought  and  pol- 
ished and  set  in  fine  gold  at  the  end 

[32] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

of  a  golden  chain.  Never  was  she  glad 
at  my  coming  or  sorry  at  my  going. 
Never  did  she  give  me  anything  ex- 
cept what  I  took  from  her.  There  was 
nothing  in  it. 

"Now  whether  Herod  knew  of  the 
jewel  that  I  kept  in  my  dwelling  I 
cannot  tell.  It  was  sure  that  he  had 
his  spies  in  all  the  city,  and  himself 
walked  the  streets  by  night  in  a  dis- 
guise. On  a  certain  day  he  sent  for 
me,  and  had  me  into  his  secret 
chamber,  professing  great  love  tow- 
ard me  and  more  confidence  than  in 
any  man  that  lived.  So  I  must  go 
to  Rome  for  him,  bearing  a  sealed 
letter  and  a  private  message  to 
Caesar.  All  my  goods  would  be  left 
safely  in  the  hands  of  the  king,  my 
friend,  who  would  reward  me  double. 
There  was  a  certain  place  of  high 

[33] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

authority  at  Jerusalem  which  Caesar 
would  gladly  bestow  on  a  Jew  who 
had  done  him  a  service.  This  mission 
would  commend  me  to  him.  It  was  a 
great  occasion,  suited  to  my  powers. 
Thus  Herod  fed  me  with  fair  promises, 
and  I  ran  his  errand.  There  was 
nothing  in  it. 

"I  stood  before  Caesar  and  gave  him 
the  letter.  He  read  it  and  laughed, 
saying  that  a  prince  with  an  incurable 
hunger  is  a  servant  of  value  to  an 
emperor.  Then  he  asked  me  if  there 
was  nothing  sent  with  the  letter.  I 
answered  that  there  was  no  gift,  but  a 
message  for  his  private  ear.  He  drew 
me  aside  and  I  told  him  that  Herod 
begged  earnestly  that  his  dear  son, 
Antipater,  might  be  sent  back  in 
haste  from  Rome  to  Palestine,  for  the 
king  had  great  need  of  him. 

[34] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"At  this  Csesar  laughed  again.  'To 
bury  him,  I  suppose,'  said  he,  'with 
his  brothers,  Alexander  and  Aristobu- 
lus !  Truly,  it  is  better  to  be  Herod's 
swine  than  his  son.  Tell  the  old  fox 
he  may  catch  his  own  prey.'  With 
this  he  turned  from  me  and  I  with- 
drew unrewarded,  to  make  my  way 
back,  as  best  I  could  with  an  empty 
purse,  to  Palestine.  I  had  seen  the 
Lord  of  the  World.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  it. 

"Selling  my  rings  and  bracelets  I 
got  passage  in  a  trading  ship  for 
Joppa.  There  I  heard  that  the  king 
was  not  in  Jerusalem,  at  his  Palace  of 
the  Upper  City,  but  had  gone  with 
his  friends  to  make  merry  for  a  month 
on  the  Mountain  of  the  Little  Para- 
dise. On  that  hill-top  over  against  us, 
where  the  lights  are  flaring  to-night, 

[35] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

in  the  banquet-hall  where  couches 
are  spread  for  a  hundred  guests,  I 
found  Herod." 

The  listening  shepherds  spat  upon 
the  ground  again,  and  Jotham  mut- 
tered, "May  the  worms  that  devour 
his  flesh  never  die!"  But  Zadok 
whispered,  "We  wait  for  the  Lord's 
salvation  to  come  out  of  Zion."  And 
the  sad  shepherd,  looking  with  fixed 
eyes  at  the  firelit  mountain  far  away, 
continued  his  story: 

"The  king  lay  on  his  ivory  couch, 
and  the  sweat  of  his  disease  was  heavy 
upon  him,  for  he  was  old,  and  his 
flesh  was  corrupted.  But  his  hair  and 
his  beard  were  dyed  and  perfumed 
and  there  was  a  wreath  of  roses  on 
his  head.  The  hall  was  full  of  nobles 
and  great  men,  the  sons  of  the  high- 
priest  were  there,  and  the  servants 

[36] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

poured  their  wine  in  cups  of  gold. 
There  was  a  sound  of  soft  music ;  and 
all  the  men  were  watching  a  girl  who 
danced  in  the  middle  of  the  hall ;  and 
the  eyes  of  Herod  were  fiery,  like  the 
eyes  of  a  fox. 

"The  dancer  was  Tamar.  She  glis- 
tened like  the  snow  on  Lebanon,  and 
the  redness  of  her  was  ruddier  than  a 
pomegranate,  and  her  dancing  was 
like  the  coiling  of  white  serpents. 
When  the  dance  was  ended  her  at- 
tendants threw  a  veil  of  gauze  over 
her  and  she  lay  among  her  cushions, 
half  covered  with  flowers,  at  the  feet 
of  the  king. 

"Through  the  sound  of  clapping 
hands  and  shouting,  two  slaves  led 
me  behind  the  couch  of  Herod.  His 
eyes  narrowed  as  they  fell  upon  me. 
T  told  him  the  message  of  Csesar, 

[37] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

making  it  soft,  as  if  it  were  a  word 
that  suffered  him  to  catch  his  prey. 
He  stroked  his  beard  softly  and  his 
look  fell  on  Tamar. '  I  have  caught  it,' 
he  murmured ;  *  by  all  the  gods,  I  have 
always  caught  it.  And  my  dear  son, 
Antipater,  is  coming  home  of  his  own 
will.  I  have  lured  him,  he  is  mine.' 

"Then  a  look  of  madness  crossed 
his  face  and  he  sprang  up,  with 
frothing  lips,  and  struck  at  me. 
*  What  is  this,'  he  cried,  *a  spy,  a  ser- 
vant of  my  false  son,  a  traitor  in  my 
banquet-hall !  Who  are  you  ? '  I  knelt 
before  him,  protesting  that  he  must 
know  me;  that  I  was  his  friend,  his 
messenger;  that  I  had  left  all  my 
goods  in  his  hands ;  that  the  girl  who 
had  danced  for  him  was  mine.  At  this 
his  face  changed  again  and  he  fell 
back  on  his  couch,  shaken  with  hor- 

[38] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

rible  laughter.  'Yours!'  he  cried, 
'when  was  she  yours  ?  What  is  yours  ? 
I  know  you  now,  poor  madman.  You 
are  Ammiel,  a  crazy  shepherd  from 
Galilee,  who  troubled  us  some  time 
since.  Take  him  away,  slaves.  He  has 
twenty  sheep  and  twenty  goats  among 
my  flocks  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
See  to  it  that  he  gets  them,  and  drive 
him  away.' 

"I  fought  against  the  slaves  with 
my  bare  hands,  but  they  held  me.  I 
called  to  Tamar,  begging  her  to  have 
pity  on  me,  to  speak  for  me,  to  come 
with  me.  She  looked  up  with  her  eyes 
like  doves  behind  her  veil,  but  there 
was  no  knowledge  of  me  in  them. 
She  laughed  lazily,  as  if  it  were  a  poor 
comedy,  and  flung  a  broken  rose- 
branch  in  my  face.  Then  the  silver 
cord  was  loosened  within  me,  and  my 

[39] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

heart  went  out,  and  I  struggled  no 
more.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"Afterward  I  found  myself  on  the 
road  with  this  flock.  I  led  them  past 
Hebron  into  the  south  country,  and 
so  by  the  Vale  of  Eshcol,  and  over 
many  hills  beyond  the  Pools  of  Sol- 
omon, until  my  feet  brought  me  to 
your  fire.  Here  I  rest  on  the  way  to 
nowhere." 

He  sat  silent,  and  the  four  shepherds 
looked  at  him  with  amazement. 

"It  is  a  bitter  tale,"  said  Shama, 
"and  you  are  a  great  sinner." 

"I  should  be  a  fool  not  to  know 
that,"  answered  the  sad  shepherd, 
"but  the  knowledge  does  me  no 
good." 

"You  must  repent,"  said  Nathan, 
the  youngest  shepherd,  in  a  friendly 
voice. 

[40] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"How  can  a  man  repent,"  answered 
the  sad  shepherd,  "unless  he  has 
hope  ?  But  I  am  sorry  for  everything, 
and  most  of  all  for  living." 

"Would  you  not  live  to  kill  the  fox 
Herod?"  cried  Jotham  fiercely. 

"Why  should  I  let  him  out  of  the 
trap,"  answered  the  sad  shepherd. 
"Is  he  not  dying  more  slowly  than  I 
could  kill  him?" 

"You  must  have  faith  in  God,"  said 
Zadok  earnestly  and  gravely. 

"He  is  too  far  away." 

"Then  you  must  have  love  for  your 
neighbor." 

"He  is  too  near.  My  confidence  in 
man  was  like  a  pool  by  the  wayside. 
It  was  shallow,  but  there  was  water 
in  it,  and  sometimes  a  star  shone 
there.  Now  the  feet  of  many  beasts 
have  trampled  through  it,  and  the 

[41] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

jackals  have  drunken  of  it,  and  there 
is  no  more  water.  It  is  dry  and  the 
mire  is  caked  at  the  bottom.  ' 

"Is  there  nothing  good  in  the 
world?" 

"There  is  pleasure,  but  I  am  sick 
of  it.  There  is  power,  but  I  hate  it. 
There  is  wisdom,  but  I  mistrust  it. 
Life  is  a  game  and  every  player  is  for 
his  own  hand.  Mine  is  played.  I  have 
nothing  to  win  or  lose." 

"You  are  young,  you  have  many 
years  to  live." 

"I  am  old,  yet  the  days  before  me 
are  too  many." 

"But  you  travel  the  road,  you  go 
forward.  Do  you  hope  for  nothing?" 

"I  hope  for  nothing,"  said  the  sad 
shepherd.  "Yet  if  one  thing  should 
come  to  me  it  might  be  the  beginning 
of  hope.  If  I  saw  in  man  or  woman  a 

[42] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

deed  of  kindness  without  a  selfish 
reason,  and  a  proof  of  love  gladly 
given  for  its  own  sake  only,  then  might 
I  turn  my  face  toward  that  light.  Till 
that  comes,  how  can  I  have  faith  in 
God  whom  I  have  never  seen  ?  I  have 
seen  the  world  which  he  has  made, 
and  it  brings  me  no  faith.  There  is 
nothing  in  it." 

"Ammiel-ben-Jochanan,"  said  the 
old  man  sternly,  "you  are  a  son  of 
Israel,  and  we  have  had  compassion 
on  you,  according  to  the  law.  But  you 
are  an  apostate,  an  unbeliever,  and 
we  can  have  no  more  fellowship  with 
you,  lest  a  curse  come  upon  us.  The 
company  of  the  desperate  brings  mis- 
fortune. Go  your  way  and  depart  from 
us,  for  our  way  is  not  yours." 

So  the  sad  shepherd  thanked  them 
for  their  entertainment,  and  took  the 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

little  kid  again  in  his  arms,  and  went 
into  the  night,  calling  his  flock.  But 
the  youngest  shepherd  Nathan  fol- 
lowed him  a  few  steps  and  said : 

"There  is  a  broken  fold  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  It  is  old  and  small,  but  you 
may  find  a  shelter  there  for  your  flock 
where  the  wind  will  not  shake  you. 
Go  your  way  with  God,  brother,  and 
see  better  days." 

Then  Ammiel  went  a  little  way  down 
the  hill  and  sheltered  his  flock  in  a 
corner  of  the  crumbling  walls.  He  lay 
among  the  sheep  and  the  goats  with 
his  face  upon  his  folded  arms,  and 
whether  the  time  passed  slowly  or 
swiftly  he  did  not  know,  for  he  slept. 

He  waked  as  Nathan  came  running 
and  stumbling  among  the  scattered 
stones. 

"We  have  seen  a  vision,"  he  cried, 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"a  wonderful  vision  of  angels.  Did 
you  not  hear  them  ?  They  sang  loudly 
of  the  Hope  of  Israel.  We  are  going  to 
Bethlehem  to  see  this  thing  which  is 
come  to  pass.  Come  you  and  keep 
watch  over  our  sheep  while  we  are 
gone." 

"Of  angels  I  have  seen  and  heard 
nothing,"  said  Ammiel,  "but  I  will 
guard  your  flocks  with  mine,  since  I 
am  in  debt  to  you  for  bread  and  fire." 

So  he  brought  the  kid  in  his  arms, 
and  the  weary  flock  straggling  after 
him,  to  the  south  wall  of  the  great 
fold  again,  and  sat  there  by  the  em- 
bers at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  while 
the  others  were  away. 

The  moon  rested  like  a  ball  on  the 

edge  of  the  western  hills  and  rolled 

behind  them.  The  stars  faded  in  the 

east  and  the  fires  went  out  on  the 

[451 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

Mountain  of  the  Little  Paradise. 
Over  the  hills  of  Moab  a  gray  flood 
of  dawn  rose  slowly,  and  arrows  of 
red  shot  far  up  before  the  sunrise. 

The  shepherds  returned  full  of  joy 
and  told  what  they  had  seen. 

"It  was  even  as  the  angels  said  unto 
us,"  said  Shama,  "and  it  must  be 
true.  The  King  of  Israel  has  come. 
The  faithful  shall  be  blessed." 

"Herod  shall  fall,"  cried  Jotham, 
lifting  his  clenched  fist  toward  the 
dark  peaked  mountain.  "Burn,  black 
Idumean,  in  the  bottomless  pit,  where 
the  fire  is  not  quenched." 

Zadok  spoke  more  quietly.  "We 
found  the  new-born  child  of  whom 
the  angels  told  us  wrapped  in  swad- 
dling clothes  and  lying  in  a  manger. 
The  ways  of  God  are  wonderful.  His 
salvation  comes  out  of  darkness,  and 

[46] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

we  trust  in  the  promised  deliverance. 
But  you,  Ammiel-ben-Jochanan,  ex- 
cept you  believe,  you  shall  not  see  it. 
Yet  since  you  have  kept  our  flocks 
faithfully,  and  because  of  the  joy  that 
has  come  to  us,  I  give  you  this  piece 
of  silver  to  help  you  on  your  way." 

But  Nathan  came  close  to  the  sad 
shepherd  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  with  a  friendly  hand.  "Go 
you  also  to  Bethlehem,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "for  it  is  good  to  see  what 
we  have  seen,  and  we  will  keep  your 
flock  until  you  return." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Ammiel,  looking 
into  his  face,  "  for  I  think  you  wish  me 
well.  But  whether  I  shall  see  what  you 
have  seen,  or  whether  I  shall  ever 
return,  I  know  not.  Farewell." 


[47] 


Ill 

DAWN 

THE  narrow  streets  of  Bethlehem 
were  waking  to  the  first  stir  of 
life  as  the  sad  shepherd  came 
into  the  town  with  the  morning,  and 
passed  through  them  like  one  walk- 
ing in  his  sleep. 

The  court-yard  of  the  great  khan 
and  the  open  rooms  around  it  were 
crowded  with  travellers,  rousing  from 
their  night's  rest  and  making  ready 
for  the  day's  journey.  In  front  of  the 
stables  half  hollowed  in  the  rock  be- 
side the  inn,  men  were  saddling  their 
horses  and  their  beasts  of  burden,  and 
there  was  much  noise  and  confusion. 

[48] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

But  beyond  these,  at  the  end  of  the 
line,  there  was  a  deeper  grotto  in  the 
rock,  which  was  used  only  when  the 
nearer  stalls  were  full.  At  the  en- 
trance of  this  an  ass  was  tethered, 
and  a  man  of  middle  age  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

The  sad  shepherd  saluted  him  and 
told  his  name. 

"I  am  Joseph  the  carpenter  of 
Nazareth,"  replied  the  man.  "Have 
you  also  seen  the  angels  of  whom 
your  brother  shepherds  came  to  tell 
us?" 

"I  have  seen  no  angels,"  answered 
Ammiel,  "nor  have  I  any  brothers 
among  the  shepherds.  But  I  would 
fain  see  what  they  have  seen." 

"It  is  our  first-born  son,"  said 
Joseph,  "and  the  Most  High  has  sent 
him  to  us.  He  is  a  marvellous  child: 

[49] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

great  things  are  foretold  of  him. 
You  may  go  in,  but  quietly,  for 
the  child  and  his  mother  Mary  are 
asleep." 

So  the  sad  shepherd  went  in  quietly. 
His  long  shadow  entered  before  him, 
for  the  sunrise  was  flowing  into  the 
door  of  the  grotto.  It  was  made 
clean  and  put  in  order,  and  a  bed 
of  straw  was  laid  in  the  corner  on  the 
ground. 

The  child  was  asleep,  but  the  young 
mother  was  waking,  for  she  had 
taken  him  from  the  manger  into  her 
lap,  where  her  maiden  veil  of  white 
was  spread  to  receive  him.  And  she 
was  singing  very  softly  as  she  bent 
over  him  in  wonder  and  content. 

Ammiel  saluted  her  and  kneeled 
down  to  look  at  the  child.  He  saw 
nothing  different  from  other  young 

[50] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

children.  The  mother  waited  for  him 
to  speak  of  angels,  as  the  other  shep- 
herds had  done.  The  sad  shepherd 
did  not  speak,  but  only  looked.  And 
as  he  looked  his  face  changed. 

"You  have  suffered  pain  and  dan- 
ger and  sorrow  for  his  sake,"  he  said 
gently. 

"They  are  past,"  she  answered, 
"and  for  his  sake  I  have  suffered 
them  gladly." 

"He  is  very  little  and  helpless;  you 
must  bear  many  troubles  for  his 
sake." 

"To  care  for  him  is  my  joy,  and  to 
bear  him  lightens  my  burden." 

"He  does  not  know  you,  he  can  do 
nothing  for  you." 

"But  I  know  him.  I  have  carried 
him  under  my  heart,  he  is  my  son  and 
my  king." 

151] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"Why  do  you  love  him?" 

The  mother  looked  up  at  the  sad 
shepherd  with  a  great  reproach  in  her 
soft  eyes.  Then  her  look  grew  pitiful 
as  it  rested  on  his  face. 

"You  are  a  sorrowful  man,"  she 
said. 

"I  am  a  wicked  man,"  he  answered. 

She  shook  her  head  gently. 

"I  know  nothing  of  that,"  she  said, 
"but  you  must  be  very  sorrowful, 
since  you  are  born  of  a  woman 
and  yet  you  ask  a  mother  why  she 
loves  her  child.  I  love  him  for  love's 
sake,  because  God  has  given  him  to 
me." 

So  the  mother  Mary  leaned  over  her 
little  son  again  and  began  to  croon  a 
song  as  if  she  were  alone  with  him. 

But  Ammiel  was  still  there,  watch- 
ing and  thinking  and  beginning  to  re- 

[52] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

member.  It  came  back  to  him  that 
there  was  a  woman  in  Galilee  who 
had  wept  when  he  was  rebuked ;  whose 
eyes  had  followed  him  when  he  was 
unhappy,  as  if  she  longed  to  do  some- 
thing for  him;  whose  voice  had 
broken  and  dropped  silent  while  she 
covered  her  tear-stained  face  when 
he  went  away. 

His  thoughts  flowed  swiftly  and 
silently  toward  her  and  after  her  like 
rapid  waves  of  light.  There  was  a 
thought  of  her  bending  over  a  little 
child  in  her  lap,  singing  softly  for 
pure  joy, — and  the  child  was  him- 
self. There  was  a  thought  of  her  lift- 
ing a  little  child  to  the  breast  that  had 
borne  him  as  a  burden  and  a  pain,  to 
nourish  him  there  as  a  comfort  and  a 
treasure, — and  the  child  was  himself. 
There  was  a  thought  of  her  watching 

[53] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

and  tending  and  guiding  a  little  child 
from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
putting  tender  arms  around  him, 
bending  over  his  first  wavering  steps, 
rejoicing  in  his  joys,  wiping  away  the 
tears  from  his  eyes,  as  he  had  never 
tried  to  wipe  her  tears  away, — and 
the  child  was  himself.  She  had  done 
everything  for  the  child's  sake,  but 
what  had  the  child  done  for  her  sake  ? 
And  the  child  was  himself:  that  was 
what  he  had  come  to, — after  the 
nightfire  had  burned  out,  after  the 
darkness  had  grown  thin  and  melted 
in  the  thoughts  that  pulsed  through  it 
like  rapid  waves  of  light, — that  was 
what  he  had  come  to  in  the  early 
morning:  himself,  a  child  in  his 
mother's  arms. 

Then   he   arose   and   went  out  of 
the  grotto  softly,  making  the  three- 

[54] 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

fold  sign  of  reverence;  and  the  eyes 
of  Mary  followed  him  with  kind 
looks. 

Joseph  of  Nazareth  was  still  waiting 
outside  the  door. 

"How  was  it  that  you  did  not  see 
the  angels?"  he  asked.  "Were  you 
not  with  the  other  shepherds  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Ammiel,  "I  was 
asleep.  But  I  have  seen  the  mother 
and  the  child.  Blessed  be  the  house 
that  holds  them." 

"You  are  strangely  clad  for  a  shep- 
herd," said  Joseph.  "Where  do  you 
come  from?" 

"From  a  far  country,"  replied  Am- 
miel; "from  a  country  that  you  have 
never  visited." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?"  asked 
Joseph. 

"I  am  going  home,"  answered  Am- 
198} 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

miel,  "to  my  mother's  and  my  father's 
house  in  Galilee." 

"Go  in  peace,  friend,"  said  Joseph. 

And  the  sad  shepherd  took  up  his 
battered  staff,  and  went  on  his  way 
rejoicing. 


[56] 


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RECT 

JAN    41933 

NOV      I  1986 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


PS3117.       S12 


